Unto his horse-there feeding free,
He seems, I think, the rein to give;
Of moon or stars he takes no heed;
Of such we in romances read:
-Tis Johnny! Johnny! as I live.

And that's the very Pony, too!
Where is she, where is Betty Foy!
She hardly can sustain her fears;
The roaring waterfall she hears,
And cannot find her Idiot Boy.

Your Pony's worth his weight in gold:
Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy!
She's coming from among the trees,
And now all full in view she sees
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy.

And Betty sees the Pony too:

Why stand you thus, good Betty Foy?
It is no goblin, 'tis no ghost,
'Tis he whom you so long have lost,
He whom you love, your Idiot Boy.

She looks again-her arms are up-
She screams-she cannot move for joy
She darts, as with a torrent's force,
She almost has o'erturned the Horse,
And fast she holds her Idiot Boy.

And Johnny burrs, and laughs aloud;
Whether in cunning or in joy

I cannot tell; but while he laughs,
Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs
To hear again her Idiot Boy.

And now she's at the Pony's tail,
And now is at the Pony's head-1
On that side now, and now on this;
And, almost stifled with her bliss,
A few sad tears does Betty shed.

She kisses o'er and o'er again

Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy;
She's happy here, is happy there,
She is uneasy every where;

Her limbs are all alive with joy.

She pats the Pony, where or when.
She knows not, happy Betty Foy!
The little Pony glad may be,
But he is milder far than she,
You hardly can perceive his joy.

"Oh! Johnny, never mind the Doctor;
You've done your best and that is all;"
She took the reins, when this was said,
And gently turned the Pony's head
From the loud waterfall.

By this the stars were almost gone,
The moon was setting on the hill,
So pale you scarcely looked at her:
The little birds began to stir,
Though yet their tongues were still.

1

1827.

And now she's at the pony's head,

1798.

The Pony, Betty, and her Boy,
Wind slowly through the woody dale;
And who is she, betimes abroad,

That hobbles up the steep rough road?
Who is it, but old Susan Gale?

1

Long time lay Susan lost in thought;
And many dreadful fears beset her,
Both for her Messenger and Nurse:
And, as her mind grew worse and worse,
Her body
ew better.

1

She turned,

tossed herself in bed,

On all sides doubts and terrors met her;

Point after point did she discuss;

And, while her mind was fighting thus,

Her body still grew better.

"Alas! what is become of them?

These fears can never be endured;
I'll to the wood."-The word scarce said,
Did Susan rise up from her bed,
As if by magic cured.

Away she goes up hill and down,

And to the wood at length is come;

She spies her Friends, she shouts a greeting;
Oh me! it is a merry meeting

As ever was in Christendom.

1827.

Long Susan lay deep lost in thought,

1798.

The owls have hardly sung their last,
While our four travellers homeward wend;

The owls have hooted all night long,

And with the owls began my song,
And with the owls must end.

For while they all were travelling home,
Cried Betty," Tell us, Johnny, do,
Where all this long night you have been,

What you have heard, what you have seen:

And thus, to Betty's question, he
Made answer, like a traveller bold,
(His very words I give to you,)

"The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo,
And the sun did shine so cold!"
-Thus answered Johnny in his glory,
And that was all his travel's story.

LINES,

COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A tour.

[No poem of mine was composed under circumstances more pleasant for me to remember than this, I began it upon leaving Tintern, after crossing the Wye, and concluded it just as I was entering Bristol in the

evening, after a ramble of four or five days, with my Sister. Not a line of it was altered, and not any part of it written down till I reached Bristol. It was published almost immediately after in the little volume of which so much has been said in these Notes.-(The Lyrical Ballads, as first published at Bristol by Cottle.)]

FIVE years have past; five summers, with the length

Of five long winters! and again I hear

These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur. 1*. -Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!3
With some uncertain notice, as might seem
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,

Among the woods and copses lose themselves,
Nor with their green and simple hue, disturb
The wild green landscape.

1798.

Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves

Among the woods and copses, nor disturb

The wild green landscape.

1802.

3

And the low copses-coming from the trees,

1798.

The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above Tintern. 1798.